An age in her embraces pass'd
Would seem a winter's day,
Where life and light with envious haste
Are torn and snatch'd away.

But oh, how slowly minutes roll
When absent from her eyes,
That feed my love, which is my soul:
It languishes and dies.

For then no more a soul, but shade,
It mournfully does move
And haunts my breast, by absence made
The living tomb of love.

You wiser men, despise me not
Whose lovesick fancy raves
On shades of souls, and heaven knows what
Short ages live in graves.

Agatha Christie to
E. Phillips Oppenheim,
“Who is this Hemingway,
Who is this Proust?

Who is this Vladimir
Whatchamacallum, this
Neopostrealist
Rabble?” she groused.

When I was twenty inches long,
I could not hear the thrushes' song;
The radiance of morning skies
Was most displeasing to my eyes.

For loving looks, caressing words,
I cared no more than sun or birds;
But I could bite my mother's breast,
And that made up for all the rest.

Again the wood, and long-withdrawing vale,
In many a tint of tender green are drest,
Where the young leaves, unfolding, scarce conceal
Beneath their early shade, the half-form'd nest
Of finch or woodlark; and the primrose pale,
And lavish cowslip, wildly scatter'd round,
Give their sweet spirits to the sighing gale.
Ah! season of delight! — could aught be found
To soothe awhile the tortured bosom's pain,
Of Sorrow's rankling shaft to cure the wound,
And bring life's first delusions once again,

Again the summer-fevered skies,
The breath of autumn calms;
Again the golden moons arise
On harvest-happy farms.
The locusts pipe, the crickets sing
Among the falling leaves,
And wandering breezes sigh, and bring
The harp-notes of the sheaves.

Peace smiles upon the hills and dells:
Peace smiles upon the seas;
And drop the notes of happy bells
Upon the fruited trees.
The broad Missouri stretches far
Her commerce-gathering arms,
And multiply on Arkansas
The grain-encumbered farms.

i

Again let me do a lot of extraordinary talking.
Again let me do a lot!
Let me abound in speeches—let me abound!—publicly polyglot.
Better a blind word to bluster with—better a bad word than none lieber Gott!
Watch me push into my witch's vortex all the Englishman's got
To cackle and rattle with—you catch my intention?—to be busily balking
The tongue-tied Briton—that is my outlandish plot!
To put a spark in his damp peat—a squib for the Scotchman—
Starch for the Irish—to give a teutonic-cum-Scot

Again I hear that creaking step —
He's rapping at the door! —
Too well I know the boding sound
That ushers in a bore.
I do not tremble when I meet
The stoutest of my foes,
But Heaven defend me from the friend
Who comes — but never goes!

He drops into my easy chair,
And asks about the news;
He peers into my manuscript,
And gives his candid views;
He tells me where he likes the line,

Again Columbia's stripes, unfurl'd,
Have testified before the world,
How brave are those who wear 'em;
The foe has now been taught again
His streamers cannot shade the main
While Yankees live to share 'em.
Huzza! once more for Yankee skill!
The brave are very generous still
But teach the foes submission:
Now twice three times his flag we've gain'd,
And more, much more can be obtain'd
Upon the same condition.

The gallant Enterprise her name,
A vessel erst of little fame,
Had sail'd and caught the foe, sirs;

1. Again as evening's shadow falls, We gather in these hallowed walls;
2. May struggling hearts that seek release Here find the rest of God's own peace;
And vesper hymn and vesper prayer Rise mingling on the holy air.
And, strengthened here by hymn and prayer, Lay down the burden and the care.

3. O God, our light! to thee we bow;
Within all shadows standest thou;
Give deeper calm than night can bring;
Give sweeter songs than lips can sing.

4. Life's tumult we must meet again,
We cannot at the shrine remain;
But in the Spirit's secret cell

Weathered gray, the wooden walls
of the old barn soak in the bright
sparkling blood of the five-point mule
deer I hang there in the moonlight.
Gutted, skinned, and shimmering in eternal
nakedness, the glint in its eyes could
be stolen from the dry hills of Jerusalem.
They say before the white man
brought us Jesus, we had honor.
They say when we killed the Deer People,
we told them their spirits
would live in our flesh.
We used bows of ash, no spotlights, no rifles,
and their holy blood became ours.
Or something like that.